A Witcher's Tale
by Livewire1306
Summary: The story of a witcher from the School of the Cat. Despite his attempts to remain neutral, he is inevitably drawn into the dangerous world of political intrigue in the Northern Kingdoms. Takes place prior to the games and books. Will eventually work into it.
1. Chapter 1

The cat medallion bounced and shifted with the plodding movements of the horse, beating rhythmically against the leather jerkin of its bearer. At the sight of the medallion, the handful of the residents of Oxenfurt passing through the darkened marketplace shrank away, turning their eyes from the necessary evil in their midst. Witchers might be undesirable, mutated freaks accused of an all manner of sins, but that didn't mean that a professional monster-killer should be turned away on principle. At least, when there were contracts available. The medallion came to an abrupt halt before a wooden board, upon which a patchwork of notices had been pinned. Swinging loosely as the witcher slid off his horse, the medallion jingled cheerily on its metal chain as he stepped up to the notice board. An all manner of things had been placed on the board: Lost: stone belonging to I. Kant; Selling: toboggan, see Mr. Kane of Rosebud Lane for details; Exchange: ten thousand spoons for one knife. The most prominent of these bore the mark of the W&J Printing Company, and proudly displayed the words: "WITCHER NEEDED." A hand encased in a black leather glove reached out and tugged the notice free of its nail, stuffed it into an empty pocket, and jerked the reins of the pale horse in the direction of the nearest inn.

The Cock And Bells was almost packed when the door was eased open. Those nearest the door squinted into the darkness, trying to pick out the newcomer. The witcher pulled down his hood and kicked the door closed with his heel. The torchlight picked out the sharp nose and jawline of the witcher, covered though it was by a shaggy, unkempt beard. From beneath dark locks of black hair – cut short at the sides and gathered into a rough ponytail at the back – two cat-like eyes surveyed the inn. He was taller than average, but broad-shouldered and lean. The leather armour fitted tightly to his body, leaving nothing exposed. His belt held a variety of items: by his right hip hung a small, one-handed crossbow; several vials protruded from a pouch, each containing the toxic potions that only witchers could tolerate, their contents sloshing as the witcher moved; and, most curiously of all, a cracked witcher's medallion in the shape of a screeching griffon hung limply by the crossbow. Across his left shoulder, the witcher held the tools of his trade – a pair of longswords, each stamped with the same cat emblem as the medallion around his neck. One blade for monsters; the other...

The witcher glanced at the peasants goggling at him.

The other for whoever happened to deserve it.

The inkeeper eyed the witcher warily as he stepped up to the bar. He was a stocky man who had once been well-built, but was now running to fat. His bald head shone with sweat as he moved over to serve him, the droplets leaking down into his thick red beard. "How can I help you, sir?"

"Bottle of vodka," he grunted. His voice was like crunching gravel. "And a room."

"Ten crowns for the vodka," the innkeeper fished underneath the counter and brought out a bottle and shot glass. "The room is twenty crowns per night. You get breakfast at sun-up, and dinner at sundown. Got a horse that needs stabled?"

"Tied up outside. White mare."

"Hod!" The innkeeper shouted towards the back of the bar, and a moment later, a halfling trotted out. "White mare outside needs stabled. See to it." He turned back to the witcher. "I'll need a name, for the ledger."

The witcher paused for a moment. "Lupus Grimm, of Cintra."

The innkeeper scrawled the name into a book beneath the counter. "Third door on the left. Hod will take your saddlebags up for you."

Lupus tipped a handful of Novigrad Crowns onto the bar, and slid them over to the innkeeper. Plucking the vodka and glass from the bar, he made his way through the throng of people towards a rickety seat in a small alcove, shielded from the glare of the torchlight. Leaning his two swords against the wall and balancing the vodka bottle on the windowsill, Lupus pulled out the notice he had pulled from the board, and two handwritten letters. The notice had been produced on the orders of Jon Kissige, Mayor of Oxenfurt. That loosely translated to " _We have a fucking serious problem_ ," Lupus mused. And a significant payment in gold. According to the notice, a beast had been terrorising the local citizens, killing four people of rank. Further information was to be given upon acceptance of the contract. That, Lupus thought grimly, spells: " _We have a serious fucking problem and a witcher has already turned us down._ " Lupus liked desperate clients. They tended to pay him more. Taking a long draught of vodka, Lupus to the handwritten letters. He skimmed through the first one. It was written in a neat, flowing script, and bore a soft scent of pine needles.

 _Lupus,_

 _Trouble is brewing in Oxenfurt. There's been four murders in the Merchant Quarter, all of them political opponents of the mayor. But the victims have reportedly been torn limb from limb – blood all over the walls, organs missing, and so on. It's a monster of some kind, that's for sure. Meet me in Oxenfurt as soon as you can. I fear this goes deeper than a handful of murders. I'll be staying at my townhouse. I trust you still know the way._

 _Triss._

As a witcher, Lupus tended to shy away from politics. In his opinion, remaining neutral was a fundamental part of keeping one's head firmly connected to one's neck, and crossbow bolts out of one's back. Rulers changed like the wind, but gold would always be around. That being said, if there was a contract available, Lupus was more than willing to take it up in spite of any possible political connections that Triss feared. The more public the murders, the more he was likely to be paid. In the two days it had taken him to travel to Oxenfurt, another two murders had taken place. Lupus could almost hear the delightful jingle of gold. He took another drink of vodka, and turned to the second letter. Before he could start reading, however, a slurred shout from across the inn drew his attention.

"Hey, freak!"

Sighing at the most common of the abusive insults hurled in his general direction on a near-daily basis, Lupus carefully slid the letter back into a thin pouch at his hip and searched for the ne'er-do-well that was so offended by the mere presence of another person. His eyes came to rest on a fat, balding man in roughly made clothes who appeared to be so unsteady that he was almost completely supported by his companions. The man stumbled over to Lupus, his friends looking on with sloppy, drunken grins. At a table nearby, a pair of dwarves and an elf sank into silence as the human staggered past. One of the dwarves - a particularly burly individual with yellowed, horse-like teeth – shifted his hand to a large hammer under the table, his dark eyes following the drunk across the room. The man stopped in front of Lupus, who, curious to see how this would end, set the letters aside and leaned forward, waiting patiently for the man to finish his sentence.

"I's wondering…" the man hiccupped. "I's wondering…"

"I _am_ ," Lupus corrected him. "It's said 'I _am_ ,' not 'I is.'"

"I's wondering," the man continued. Lupus sighed. If people wanted to curse him, they could at least do it using the correct grammar. "Why's you got two swords?"

"One for monsters," Lupus said calmly, leaning back in his chair. "The other for… butterflies."

"You kill… butterflies?"

"Menace to society that they are," Lupus nodded, tracing a short sign in the air. "Go home. Now."

The man's jaw slackened. His eyes slipped in and out of focus. He lumbered around, and wandered away. "Yeah, better go…"

Lupus turned back to the second handwritten letter, but before he could start reading it, there was a shout from across the room.

"Eh! That freak's cast a spell on Erik!"

Glancing up, Lupus saw the drunk's friends trying to shake the fat man out of his sign-imposed stupor. Lupus frowned. The man should have quietly gone to the door and left without a fuss. Instead, he had stopped dead in front of his friends, drooling and swaying on the spot. The witcher swore under his breath. The sign must have been too powerful. The fat man's friends lurched towards him, leaving their comrade gazing vapidly into space. Before Lupus could react, the burly, horse-toothed dwarf at the table swung his hammer into the nearest man. With a gasp, the human crumpled over the hammer like a sack of potatoes, and he sank to the ground clutching his stomach. The second dwarf, this one with a bright streak of orange hair gathered into a ridge of stiff peaks like a mountain range, leapt from his seat with a roar and collided with the other drunk. The dwarf's bony forehead smacked hard into the human's temple, and the pair tumbled to the floor next to the nearest bystanders, who had barely acknowledged the ongoing scuffle. The elf watched with an air of such boredom that Lupus gathered this was not a new experience to her. She brushed her long, dark hair behind one pointed ear and calmly emptied the mugs of her companions into her own tankard as they worked to extricate the orange-haired dwarf from beneath his now-unconscious prey.

Lupus looked on, astonished at this sudden turn of luck. He couldn't remember the last time he had successfully managed to avoid punching someone unconscious on account of someone else doing the punching for him. The situation normally went: Stupid Drunk says something stupid to the witcher; said witcher retorts with something witty and dark; Stupid Drunk stupidly tries to punch said witcher; aforementioned witcher beats the man unconscious; local innkeeper informs the witcher that the guards are coming; witcher escapes in daring fashion. Rarely, if ever, did the formula change. Certainly, no one had ever intervened on his behalf. At least, not since…

"By my beard, it's a fucking witcher!" The black-bearded dwarf had finally extricated his companion and now stood, arms folded, in front of Lupus. "And I thought these pricks were just being pricks for the sake of it."

"Know them well?" Lupus raised an eyebrow.

"Not in the slightest," The dwarf snorted. "Just don't like seeing people being cocks for no reason."

"Appreciate the help," the witcher nodded, he hesitated, eyeing the dwarf. He seemed completely guileless. "Lupus Grimm, of Cintra."

"Marlon Corona, professional arse-kicker," the dwarf stuck out a thick hand ridged with calluses. His grip nearly crushed Lupus' hand. He pointed to the orange-haired dwarf, who was busy sifting through the contents of the unconscious men's pockets, grinning inanely as he watched the firelight glinting on a handful of crowns. "And this is my brother, Max. He's somewhat touched in the head. Mad, some would say."

"Yeah, I see that," Lupus nodded, watching the dwarf play with the coins.

"Anyway," Marlon said, turning back to the witcher, "Come have a drink with us. I'm sure you could entertain us with a tale."

Lupus considered the offer. It was rare for anyone to speak to him outside of his professional capacity – and often not even then – without insulting him in some way. But to have someone stand up for him, and then offer to drink with him, was a true rarity. The last time Lupus had drunk with a companion… He instantly shook off that thought. It would do him no good to reminisce on her.

"Sure," Lupus nodded. "Why not."

"Excellent," Marlon grinned, exposing his yellowed, horse-like teeth. "Come on Max, you can play with those at the table."

Lupus slid into the seat across from the elf, who briefly smiled at him. Her large, dark eyes refused to meet his, instead staring into the depths of her tankard.

"Anatheline, this is Lupus," Marlon said, sitting down heavily on his stool, which groaned in protest at the dwarf's weight. "He's a –"

"I can see he's a witcher," the elf said sharply. "I'm not stupid."

"I know, kid, I know," Marlon scratched at the wiry bristles on his chin. "Polite to introduce new friends, that's all. Not that you're ever keen to make any."

"A friend?" The dark eyes finally locked with Lupus' cat-like ones. "Is that what he is?"

"Aye, he is," Marlon glowered at the elf. He glanced into his empty tankard. "I'm away for another round. Be nice to each other. Socialise. Converse!"

"Not a fan of witchers?" Lupus grimaced as the vodka burned its way down his throat. "Don't worry, you wouldn't be the first."

"Not a fan of murderers," the elf said coldly. "The School of the Cat has something of a reputation."

"The School does," Lupus folded his arms. The Witcher School that Lupus belonged to had acquired a distasteful reputation for being assassins-for-hire – a reputation that was sorely damaging the professional endeavours of those that didn't engage in such practices. "I don't. I'm a professional, and a fucking good one."

"Where did you get the other medallion, then?" Anatheline's eyes flicked to his belt, where the cracked griffon medallion swung sadly at his side.

"None of your business," the witcher bristled. "But no. I didn't… I didn't kill her."

Lupus' stomach twisted as he spoke. It wasn't entirely true. The elf's eyes caught the brief look of remorse that flitted across his face, and her expression appeared to soften. Silence shrouded them, broken only by the clink of coins as Max played quietly with his loot. After a painfully long period of time, Marlon reappeared, carrying four foaming mugs. The dwarf carefully laid them down on the table and slid one over to the witcher.

"So tell me," Marlon said, taking a long draught of his beer. "Are you here for the Beast of the Merchant Quarter?"

"Depends on the pay," Lupus shrugged. "So long as they pay me well, I'll look into it."

"One already turned down the contract," the dwarf nodded. "Heard he took one look at one of the victims and was riding out of the city within the hour."

"In which case, my fee just shot up," Lupus smiled.

"You'd let people die for a handful of coins?" Anatheline scowled at him. "Thought you were a professional."

"If a whore refuses a client because he won't pay up," Lupus shot back, "Is it her problem if he doesn't get a fuck that night?"

"Equating yourself with whores," the elf's eyes glittered maliciously. "How appropriate."

"Like I said," Lupus shrugged. "I'm a professional. Say what you like, people need witchers."

"And you make sure they know it," Anatheline spat. "Even if it means they'll starve, you'll take their last coin."

"Not my concern," the witcher said shortly. He turned back to the dwarf. "What do you know about this beast?"

"Only the bare details," the dwarf said, twirling his moustache pensively. "The City Guard is doing fuck-all about it though. Saying they can't determine who is at risk, so they're not protecting anyone. Bullshit, I say."

"Why bullshit?" Lupus raised an eyebrow.

"Everyone that's died so far spoke out against Kissige. The whole city knows he's got the fucking captain of the guard in his pocket. Cock that he is."

"Not a fan of the local government?"

"Too fucking right," Marlon slammed a fist on the table, making the tankards jump. "Kissige spends half the time trying to blame all the city's problems on the non-humans. Man can't govern for shit, but he's got enough money to pay off the guard and half the voters in the city."

"Sounds absolutely charming," Lupus nodded. He'd met many such people during his travels. They might hate him. They might call him scum, a freak, a mutant. But when it came down to it, they would still pay him to do his job.

They talked for some time, until the inn began to empty and the patrons filed out. Lupus swapped the occasional tale of one of his past deeds for information on the city and the mood of the people, occasionally broken by brief spats over his personal and professional ethics with Anathline. While the serving girls scrubbed the tables, the bouncers dragged out any individuals that lacked the ability to leave the establishment on their own two feet, including the two slumped on the ground by Lupus' feet, and their still-drooling friend.

"We should go," Marlon nudged Max, who swept his coins into one hand and stuffed them into a pocket. He nodded to Lupus. "You're staying here?"

"I am," the witcher said, slinging his swords across one shoulder.

"Well, if you haven't scarpered like the last one, I'd be happy to share a drink with you again."

"Likewise," he nodded courteously. He caught Anatheline's eyes. "Maybe you'll like me more next time. I've been told that I grow on people."

"Stick to killing monsters," the elf said dismissively as she stood up. "Making friends clearly isn't your forte."

"Bitch!" Lupus called after her.

"Dick!" Anatheline shouted back.

Lupus smiled, his pointed white teeth glittering in the sputtering candlelight. As he moved away from the wall and up to his room, the witcher's shadow seemed to linger. A horned head tilted in the direction of the witcher, then swept up the stairs alongside him. The witcher paused, his medallion trembling. Out of the corner of his eye, Lupus saw the shadow shift very slightly, though he himself stood completely still. Shaking his head in disbelief, Lupus swept into the room, quiet as the shadow that followed him. He laid his swords down by his bed, and slid a hunting knife under the pillow. He kicked off his boots, unbuttoned his leather jerkin, and hung it on the bedstead, then slipped into the bed. The witcher savoured the feeling of clean sheets and fresh linen. He had been on The Path for some years now, sporadically returning to winter at the School of the Cat's fortress in Kovir, and every now and then spending a winter in better company than his witcher brothers. Lupus turned restlessly in his bed. He knew what sleep would bring. He knew the Hym was watching him, trying to break through the witcher's iron-hard resolve. His dreams no longer brought him any joy. They only showed him death.

 _Her death_.


	2. Chapter 2

Lupus stirred in the pale light of the dawn. He had slept restlessly, but then, he was used to it. The nightmares had come and gone. Her face – spattered with blood – had been pushed to the forefront. The Hym had whispered in his ear, driving the witcher to pay for what he had done by inflicting harm on himself. Make the pain real. Feel what she had in her last moments. _Atone for what you did to her_. But Lupus knew how to shut it out. He refused to let the creature leave him an addle-minded wreck, or push him to take his own life. He would not let it win.

"Hope you slept well," he muttered to the creature, spotting it lurking over his shoulder in a mirror as he tugged on his jerkin. It stared on passively, as it always did whenever he spoke directly to it. "I certainly didn't. But you knew that already."

He had mused over dealing with the creature. Hyms were difficult creatures at the best of times, and this one had grown strong on his guilt and remorse. So far, Lupus had managed to keep it in check. The whispers never crept into his mind, never took control. It hadn't even managed to drain his strength. And yet. Lupus sighed, turning away from the mirror. And yet, he could not bring himself to kill the monster. He would bear this creature on his shoulders until he could forgive himself. It was his penance. The witcher eyed the Hym balefully, wondering when that would be.

Lupus shook off thoughts of the Hym by cleaning his equipment until the sun's rays crept into the room. When the shouts of the merchants in the market place began to reach his ears, Lupus slung his blades across his back and slipped out of the room. Though it was early, the market was in full swing. A confused jumble of smells, sounds, and colours flitted by as he made his way through the crowds. Hoisting himself into the saddle of his pale horse, Renegade, Lupus nudged the mare into a slow trot down the street, permitting himself a brief glance at the goods on offer.

"Getcha gloves here!" Shouted a nearby vendor, an overweight man with a child-like hands and a horrific blond toupee that was in danger of being swept off of his head by a light breeze. "I know gloves! I have the best gloves! Everyone says so! They're absolutely tremendous!"

"Shields, axes, swords, armour!" Bellowed a soot-smeared blacksmith. "You never know when you'll find yourself in a dangerous zone! Buy some protection now!"

"Shrubberies!" A man called to the crowd. "Come one and all to Roger's Shrubberies! Everything on sale for just one day more!"

Lupus made slow going as he navigated his way through the crowds, Renegade bumping the occasional individual to one side, earning him a tirade of curses. Triss lived several streets away, close to the university, and at this rate it was going to take him half the morning to get there. Suddenly, cries of pain and anger began to stir from somewhere other than beneath his horse. From over the heads of the crowd, Lupus spotted a group of men bearing halberds and fitted out in the red and white livery of the Redanian army ploughing a path through the market-goers. A group of shackled students followed reluctantly in their wake, helped along by several large, unpleasant-looking guards with clubs. All of the students looked rather the worse for wear, bearing black eyes and split lips. At the head of the column, an officer in a plumed helmet screamed at those in front of him to make way.

"Help!" One of the students cried to the crowd. "Help! Help! We're being repressed!"

"Quiet there!" Barked the nearest guard, delivering a painful blow to the student's arm with his club.

"Ah! Now we see the violence inherent in the system!" The student shouted to the crowd. "Come and see the violence inherent in the system!"

"What's their crime?" Someone called out. Lupus noticed that it had grown quiet, and the crowd had drawn to a standstill.

"Riotous singing at the funeral of General Marcs!" Roared back the officer at the head of the troop. "Now back off, and move aside!"

"It's state censorship!" Shouted the student. "It's state censorship, I tell you!"

"Shut the fuck up!" The guard screamed at him, delivering another blow to the student's head. It connected solidly with his jaw, sending blood and teeth flying. The young man however, to his credit, remained standing.

The crowd bellowed its disapproval at the attack, swarming the guards escorting the prisoners. Lupus watched on, not caring about the end result, but entertained all the same. Renegade neighed, her ears twitching and eyes rolling. Lupus leaned forwards, murmuring softly in the mare's ear, and gently stroking her neck to calm her down. Marlon had given him the impression that Oxenfurt was reaching its breaking point. Students and guards had been scuffling in the streets, painting graffiti on government buildings, and preaching against Mayor Kissige. As the witcher watched, the guards were beaten to the ground, their halberds and clubs rendered useless in the confines of the crush. The students were dragged out from beneath their captors and led away.

"Free Oxenfurt!" Shouted one of the students – a particularly bloody and bruised gentleman. A set of keys were swiftly produced from the belt of a guard, and the prisoners freed and hurried away. "And down with this sort of thing!"

Seeing his chance to skip through a significant portion of the crowd, and getting the impression that the local law enforcement would likely beat the shit out of everyone present when they discovered the assault on one of their patrols, Lupus nudged Renegade through the crowd before it had a chance to reform, ignoring the cries of those that were beaten out of the way. He made his way down a quiet street lined on both sides by luxurious townhouses, Renegede's hooves clattering on the cobbles. Large gardens and high walls shielded the inhabitants from the looking at the unwashed masses, and presumably the guards running past Lupus in the direction of the market did something to that effect as well. Upon reaching the fifth townhouse on the right, Lupus slid out of the saddle, produced a small, slightly rusted key, and unlocked the gate. Taking Renegade by the reins, he led her into the garden.

He stood there for a moment, breathing in the familiar scent of orchids. The door loomed up in front of him, seeming to grow taller with every second. His mouth went dry. He clenched his fist, made to knock, then unclenched his fist. He tried again, but couldn't bring himself to do it. He could leave. He could just turn around, leave Oxenfurt, and push Triss' letter out of his mind. She didn't need him. Then, Renegade made up Lupus' mind for him. The mare shunted him forwards, sending him hurtling headfirst into the door. As he clambered to his feet, spitting every curse he knew in every language he knew at the horse, the door was pulled open, and a pair of arms were thrown around his neck. Triss Merigold grinned at him, showing every one of her perfect white teeth, her face framed by her loose auburn hair.

"You came!" She cried, laughing as Lupus pulled the sorceress into a tight embrace.

"I felt . . . compelled," Lupus said quietly, permitting a small smile, and glaring at Renegade over her shoulder, mouthing _I'll deal with you later_. The mare snorted and tossed her mane. "How did you find me?"

"Well you did make it difficult," Triss' smile faded a little. They both knew he had been difficult to find on purpose. "But I have my ways."

"That you do," Lupus nodded, he jerked his head towards the townhouse. "Shall we?"

"Of course," Triss said, smiling broadly, taking his hand and leading the way into the house. "Where have you been? What have you been doing? What contracts have you taken? Tell me everything, don't spare the details!"

She sat him down in a small, yet comfortable drawing room that overlooked the garden. One full wall was devoted to the considerable library that Triss had managed to assemble in her short time as a sorceress. Lupus felt something broach in his chest. His face broke into a smile for the first time in what felt like decades.

"I've been here and there," Lupus said, watching Triss flit around the room, tidying away heavy tomes and empty goblets of wine. "Mostly I've just been trying to get by. Drowners, ghouls, the occasional leshen or griffin."

"Nothing dangerous?"

"I'm alive, aren't I?" Lupus raised an eyebrow. "Although, that may change depending on this monster you told me of."

"It's set the whole city on edge," Triss sighed. "And the student riots aren't making things any easier."

"Saw a few of them," Lupus nodded. "Think they'll be a problem?"

"I hope not," the sorceress shrugged, pouring out two goblets of wine and offering one to Lupus. "I couldn't be certain, though."

"What do you know about this beast?" Lupus asked, taking a sip of wine. Cidarian. 1198. An excellent vintage. "You mentioned the victims were enemies of the mayor. Think the attacks are deliberate?"

"As soon as they found the first body, they sent for me." Triss shuddered. "I'll never forget it. Blood everywhere, body torn to pieces. You get the idea. It looks outright bestial."

"When was the most recent murder?" Lupus traced a finger around the rim of his goblet, cogs in his mind turning.

"A couple of days ago. Lukas Pollo – he was the Dean of Medicine at the university."

"Where's the body?" Lupus got to his feet. "I want to know what I'm dealing with before I negotiate a price."

"In the university morgue," Triss stood up, draining her goblet. "Portal, or horse?"

"Horse. _Always_ by horse."

"I'm working on a paper, you know," Triss climbed up into Renegade's saddle.

"A paper? On what?" Lupus hoisted himself up behind the sorceress, looping his arms around her waist and taking hold of the saddle.

"The irrational fears of witchers, with particular regard to portals," Triss whistled at the mare, sending her trotting down the street. Lupus rolled his eyes. Every time he'd tried that trick, the horse had stubbornly refused to move.

"It's not an irrational fear when you might decide to drop me into a Novigrad canal for fun."

Triss burst out laughing. "I'd forgotten about that!"

"Do you know how long it took me to get the stench out of my armour?"

"Do _you_ know I had to air out the entire top floor of my house there for two weeks?"

"Of course, your townhouse in Novigrad is the real victim here," Lupus said sarcastically, ducking his head to avoid a low-hanging branch as they passed into the vibrant greenery of the university gardens. Birds chirped to each other from all around them. Somewhere nearby, a stream gurgled. "Some of us don't even own one house, never mind half a dozen."

"That's because those people," Triss said softly, clasping her hand around his. "Turned down the offer."

"Triss, I…" Lupus started nervously. Why were these conversations always so difficult? "I should apologise for how I acted. Before. When I left you. In Novigrad."

"Really, Lupus, it's fine," she leaned back into him, pressing her soft cheek into his coarse, bearded one. "You're here now. That's what matters."

"Were it in better circumstances," Lupus grimaced, in spite of the pleasant surroundings of the university gardens.

"You and your stoic professionalism," Triss said, a faint smile on her lips. "It's a wonder we even managed to have a relationship."

"I thought you –" Lupus started, his voice stiff and accusing, but he was quickly cut off by Triss' melodious laugh.

"Relax, Lupus, I was joking."

Lupus considered this for a moment, then felt his stony face break into a thin smile. The sunlight leaking through the canopy of blooming flowers and trees created a humid, fuzzy atmosphere. Lupus felt himself growing drifting away. He had slept restlessly, largely due to the Hym's nightmares, and Triss' cheek felt warm and comfortable against his skin. However, his reverie was cut short by the clatter of hooves on cobbled stones. With some reluctance, Lupus removed his arms from around Triss' waist. She slid out of the saddle, quickly followed by the witcher, who handed the reins to a young stableboy that came trotting over to them. A tall, thin, elderly gentleman with wisps of grey hair flowing from his head hurried out of the university building, stopped directly in front of the pair, and gave a short bow to Triss.

"Mistress Merigold," he croaked in a voice as dry as sawdust. "The Dean of the Faculty of Most Contemporary History has requested your presence."

"Who?" Lupus frowned, looking at Triss, whose face had grown stony.

"Take the witcher to see the bodies left by the beast," the sorceress instructed the elderly man. "I know the way."

"Triss?"

"Not now," she hissed, striding away into the depths of the university.

"If you would follow me, sir," the elderly man said, extending an arm towards the nearest building – a short, squat structure separated from the other, grander buildings. "Professor Hubert Rejk is overseeing the bodies. He can answer any questions you have."

"Can you tell me about him?"

"Professor Rejk?" the elderly man's eyebrows shot up. "He has taught here for some twenty years now. He specialises in anatomy, often helps the city guard with their investigations."

"So he has the bodies from the other murders?"

"No, sir," the old man croaked. "He said they should be burned – to prevent disease spreading."

Lupus swore loudly, sending the old man's eyebrow's flying up his forehead. "Sir, this is a place of academic study, such language –"

"Listen," Lupus said fiercely, rounding on the old man. His ponytail danced behind his head like a flail. "I'm here to save your fucking leathery skin, along with that of every other man, woman, and child in Oxenfurt! So if you don't mind, I'll use whatever language I damn well fucking please while I'm doing it!"

"Well, if that's how it's going to be," the old man muttered to himself. He loudly cleared his throat, and jabbed Lupus in the chest. "Go fuck yourself!"

With that, the old man stomped away, stopping only to shout at a group of students lounging on the finely-trimmed lawns of the university gardens.

"Enjoy that?"

Lupus spun on his heel, instinctively reaching around for the hunting knife in the small of his back. By the time he realised that the speaker was of no threat to him, the knife was already half-drawn. A tall, lean man was leaning against the wall by the door of the morgue. His long brown hair was slicked back, and glistened in the sunlight. A thick beard covered plump cheeks. But it was his eyes that struck Lupus most of all. Though his demeanour and body language exuded warmth, his grey eyes were dead, cold, calculating. And he certainly didn't look like a man who had been teaching for twenty years.

The newcomer pushed himself off the wall. He began to circle Lupus, the way a wolf circles a dying deer. "You're a witcher."

"What of it?" Lupus asked irritably. The knife slid an inch further out of its sheath. "If you're going to insult me, get on with it. I've no time for this."

The man paused. Lupus edged the hunting knife another inch out of its sheath.

"My name is Hubert Rejk. I did the autopsies on the bodies I assume you want to see."

Lupus considered the man. Despite those unnaturally cold eyes, he appeared to be safe. He snapped the hunting knife back into its sheath and jerked his head at the door. Hubert's robes whispered on the cobblestones as he crossed to the door and threw it open. He glared back at Lupus. His eyes bore death. But then, so did the witcher's.

Triss sat stiffly in the comfortable, cushioned chair, glaring across at the sorceress across the table from her. Philippa Eilhart arched her fingers, and balanced her pale, pointed chin on them. Her black eyes stared straight ahead, past Triss, and out of the window. In spite of the sunlight streaming in through the window, Philippa Eilhart looked as though she was about to walk out into a thunderstorm. Her lips were drawn into a thin line, her plucked brows drawn together in concern, and her jaw locked. Though Triss had voluntarily given up the information, she felt ashamed – guilty, even – as though it had been ripped from her lips through torture.

"Lacerations," Lupus muttered, examining the shredded torso of the corpse, passing his hand over the rough tears in its flesh. "One, two, three… four. Talons. Five puncture marks on the chest. One to the left of the others. A hand, but one with sizeable claws. Missing heart… interesting."

"Why is that interesting?" Hubert Rejk asked from the corner of the morgue.

"When I said I wanted to work in silence," Lupus said over his shoulder. "I meant _absolute_ silence." He turned back to the body. The throat had been gnawed at, but the cuts were only enough to pierce the flesh. Peering closer, he could see a short, thin incision in amongst the fang marks – clearly from some kind of knife. He examined the wrists. They were bruised and cut, but only superficially. He had been tied up. So, it was sentient. The mayor of Oxenfurt better be rich, Lupus thought, because the price for this thing just doubled.

"Can he be controlled?" Philippa shot Triss a sharp glance. It was the first time she had spoken in several minutes. "Can _you_ control him?"

"I'm confident of it," Triss said, shaken that she was even having to say the words. "He trusts me. If I didn't know better, I'd say he was in love with me."

"What was his specialty?" Lupus asked Hubert, still bent over the corpse.

"I thought you wanted silence?"

"Don't test my patience," Lupus hissed. "What was his specialty?"

"Cardiology."

"Perhaps you could use it to your advantage," Philippa sat back in her chair. Unlike Triss, she was completely at ease. "I've certainly found men to be far more malleable when they've been exposed to a pair of breasts."

"Phil!"

"Triss, listen to me," Philippa leaned forwards. Instinctively, Triss edged backwards in her seat. "If he cannot be controlled, he will have to be dealt with. Do what you must – fuck him, be his shoulder to cry on, whatever is necessary. But if he cannot be brought to heel, I will have to intervene. And it will be messy."

"I understand," Triss nodded, and drew in a deep, shuddering breath to steady herself. "I'll handle it."

"Make sure you do," Philippa smirked. "I'd hate to have to break your heart."

"He broke it years ago," Triss snapped at the sorceress in a voice as harsh as a desert sun. "Leave it to me. I can control him."


	3. Chapter 3

"Two thousand Crowns? Do you seek to bankrupt me? You extortionate vermin! You thieving wretch!"

Jon Kissige was both unpleasant to listen to, and unpleasant to look at. He was fat and greasy – almost as round as he was tall. Two tiny eyes leered out of a head that was so pig-like it was making Lupus curious about the man's ancestry. With a handkerchief, he dabbed at the sweat dripping down his several chins. Lupus was certain that, if he set the Mayor of Oxenfurt on fire – something he would take immense pleasure in doing – then he would fry like a pork chop. Nevertheless, he let the man bluster and bombard him with insults for several minutes before he cut across him with a single, cold word.

"Stop." Mayor Jon Kissige faltered, just as he had begun lambasting Lupus' parentage. Lupus drew a throwing knife from a bandolier on his thigh, and began to pick at the dirt underneath his fingernails. "You have been refused by at least one witcher already. I've seen the latest victim; I know what I'm getting into. If you want me to stay and deal with this, then two thousand Crowns is my rate. I don't care if I bankrupt your city. I don't care if your children can't make it through the winter without the coin. And I most certainly don't care if it affects your political position. If your children are too dear to you; if your position as mayor of this wretched city is too precious, then I will leave, and the murders will continue. I will take half the payment in advance. Cheque only."

Kissige looked as though he was about to explode. Lupus was slightly disappointed that this did not occur. He was sure that, were he to stick his knife into the mayor's great belly, he would burst like a bubble.

"Fine," the mayor sighed. He seized a quill and scribbled a note on a scrap of parchment, then heated some wax over a candle and poured a small amount onto the space at the bottom of the note. Then, he took a stamp bearing the Oxenfurt coat of arms and firmly pressed it into rapidly cooling wax. "This will entitle you to withdraw your required sum from the Vivaldi bank."

"Was that so difficult?" Lupus smiled nastily, exposing his pointed teeth. He speared the proffered note with his throwing knife and tugged it from Kissige's hand. "I'll need access to the reports of those guardsmen that investigated the murders. If another one occurs, nobody is to enter the room before I do."

"Now you look here!" The mayor cried, standing up.

Lupus looked. And his eyes bore death. The mayor sat back down, his chair squealed in protest at the weight of its occupant. Lupus gave an exaggerated bow to the mayor, and stormed out of the mayor's office, slamming the door shut on his way out. He emerged into the bright sunlight of marketplace, which was considerably calmer than it had been in the morning. The Vivaldi bank was surrounded by grim-faced men, all of whom were armed to the teeth. They eyed the witcher suspiciously as he climbed the steps to the bank. Vagabonds and drifters like witchers didn't usually have dealings with bankers.

The bank was lined on both sides by stern-faced dwarves that peered down from tall stools and desks. At the end of the hall – stood between two large, iron-banded and studded oak doors – a grey-bearded dwarf in finely-made clothing observed the workings of the bank. A younger dwarf, his brushed beard barely touching his thick belt, trotted over to Lupus.

"Welcome to the Vivaldi Bank, Oxenfurt branch," the young dwarf recited. "How may we be of assistance today?"

"Transfer," Lupus grunted, producing the note Kissige had written. "From the city treasury, into three different accounts."

"Please come with me, sir." The dwarf led him down the hall, past the clerks weighing gemstones and counting stacks of money. He handed the note to the grey-haired dwarf, who held it up to the light and carefully inspected the signature and wax stamp as the young dwarf explained Lupus' request.

"All right, Marco, you can go," the older dwarf waved him away, then turned to the witcher. "Please, come into my office."

The heavies guarding the door stepped aside with a snap of their boots – a movement Lupus had only seen professional soldiers perform. These were no mercenaries – they were members of the Redanian army. The old dwarf pushed open the heavy doors, revealing a plush office. The desk was a mess of scrolls, ledgers, letters, and charts. The old dwarf sat down heavily behind the desk, still holding the note. Lupus stood opposite, neither invited to sit, nor desiring to with a pair of professional soldiers stood outside the door.

"My name is Cornelio Vivaldi," the dwarf finally looked up from the note. "I run this branch of the bank. I personally deal with any transfers from the city treasury."

Lupus said nothing.

"You, I expect, are a witcher. Met a few of your kind before – it's the eyes that give it away."

Still, Lupus remained silent.

"However, these other witchers wished to convert their cheques into coin only," Cornelio worked a gnarled finger through his beard. "I see something different about you."

Lupus finally broke his silence. "Not an unfair assumption."

"You expect to survive for some time."

"Not an unfair conclusion."

"In any case, to business," Cornelio rummaged around his desk for a fresh sheet of parchment, smoothed it out, and loaded a quill with ink. "Which accounts would you like to transfer the money to?"

"Four hundred to Triss Merigold, of Maribor; three hundred each to Aiden Schrodinger, of Lan Exeter and Jad Karadin, of Gors Valen."

"Nothing for yourself?" Cornelio's bushy eyebrows rose.

Lupus inclined his head. "Never told you my name."

"If that's not the accent of a native Cintrian, I'll eat my beard. But that's none of my business. I'll not pry."

Lupus smiled faintly. The dwarf had a sizeable beard. It would be quite a meal. Cornelio scribbled his own signature on the reverse of the cheque, along with the details of its recipients. Like Kissige, he heated some wax, and stamped the cheque with the Vivaldi bank's stamp, as a guarantee of its authenticity. Then, the old dwarf took a small key from around his neck and unlocked a drawer in his desk. He carefully placed the cheque inside, and locked it inside.

"This concludes our business," Cornelio clasped his hands together. "Good day to you, Unnamed Sir, of Cintra."

Lupus nodded, and made for the door.

"Witcher, one more thing." He glanced back at the dwarf, hand on the door. "One of those killed by the monster was a friend of mine. So please, make the fucker suffer."

Lupus left without saying a word. Triss was waiting for him outside the bank. Her pale blue eyes, normally soft and inviting, looked as hard as the egg-sized sapphire set into her silver necklace.

"What now?" The sorceress asked, as Lupus approached.

"Now we get to work," Lupus said, a wicked grin spreading across his face in anticipation of the hunt. "It's a higher vampire. This should be fun."

"Your version of 'fun' usually involves me patching you up for several weeks afterwards," Triss folded her arms. "Where do we start?"

"The corpse had an incision in its neck from a scalpel." Lupus sat down on the steps of the bank. "It must have been someone from the medical school. Do you know if he had any enemies there?"

"I have some contacts in the university. I'll ask around and see who he met with."

"Good," Lupus nodded, and got to his feet. "Kissige's given me access to the reports on the other bodies. I'll start reading into them, see what else I can find."

"Do you think Kissige is involved in this?"

Lupus bit his lip. His pointed teeth dug into the pale flesh, like a bear trap springing shut. "I wouldn't be surprised."

"Lukas Pollo was a fervent supporter of an independent Oxenfurt," Triss said quickly. "Just like everyone else that's been murdered."

"What are you suggesting?"

"That you might be in danger, and not just from getting torn apart by a vampire."

"I'll be fine," Lupus shrugged. "What's a knife in the back when a forktail's nearly taken your leg off?"

"Lupus, you need to take this seriously," the sorceress hissed. "Kissige is not a fool. He will have you killed if he feels you're getting too close to the truth."

Lupus considered this. "What do you suggest?"

Triss dropped her voice to a whisper. "Stay with me."

"Do you really think that's a –"

"So I know your safe," Triss cut across him. A tear fell from her eyelashes. "So that, if something happens to you, I can be there. To help you, to protect you, to care for you."

Lupus sighed, and scratched at the bristling hair on the side of his head. "Fine. If it means that much to you."

Triss took him into a tight embrace. Over his shoulder, she saw a dark-haired sorceress with black eyes stood at the top of the stairs. Philippa Eilhart clapped her hands together in feigned applause, a thin smile on her lips. Triss hugged the witcher tighter. Real tears began to flow from her eyes. When she opened her eyes again, an owl was fluttering away across the city square. After some time, she extricated herself from Lupus. The witcher brushed away the tears on her face. The focused and gentle movements were familiar to the sorceress. It was how he had brushed away her tears in Novigrad all those years ago.

"Get your things," Triss said, blinking away the last of her tears. "I'll head back to the university."

Some hours later, Lupus lay on the floor of Triss' drawing room, pages detailing the murders in the depressingly formulaic hand of a guard captain that had seen too much death. The autopsy reports lay beside him in a neat stack. Each of them had been written by Hubert Rejk. He skimmed the descriptions of the talon marks, and instead looked for the more extraordinary wounds.

Ori Bonavore had been the first victim. He had been Kissige's opponent in the mayoral election, and had spoken out against Kissige's performance as mayor for the last several years with such derision. However, upon being revealed as a having a fondness for whores, he had been forced to withdraw from the election. He had been found with his tongue ripped out, and his genitals stuffed into his mouth. Lupus blinked at the matter-of-fact manner in which the guard captain relayed this information.

Bartholomew Jiks and Ingrid Brunte had both been murdered on the same night. Jiks was the editor of the Oxenfurt Mail, who had written an editorial in support of the student riots, claiming that Kissige had not been fit to lead. He had been found stripped naked with his hands cut off, and doused in printing oil. At this point, Triss returned. Without reading the report on Ingrid Brunte, he handed it to the sorceress.

"Don't tell me what happened to her," Lupus said, as the sorceress skimmed the report. "Just tell me the background."

"Did you made a game out of this?" Triss asked, reprovingly.

"I have to find some way to enjoy my work."

Triss rolled her eyes, tossed her hair back, then summarised the report. "Ingrid Brunte was found in an alleyway by the city square. She was a whore. There is no connection to the other victims other than the manner of death. I don't remember this one being reported with the other murders."

Lupus considered this. She wasn't a political opponent. She was a bystander, an innocent victim... Lupus clapped his hands together, a grin spreading across his face. "Eyes gouged out, ears ripped off, and tongue torn out?"

"You're enjoying this far too much." Triss sat down by his head, crossing her legs. She toyed with his roughly tied ponytail as she spoke. "But yes, you were right. On all counts."

"She was a witness," Lupus tilted his head towards Triss. "She saw the vampire, so he made sure she never saw, heard, or said anything ever again. He made sure she kept the secret. What did you find out at the university?"

"Lukas Pollo was killed in the half-hour space between a meeting of the Deans of the University to discuss the student riots," Triss said, picking several strands of Lupus' hair and beginning to twine them together into a braid. "In that time, nobody entered the room. His secretary heard raised voices, but she had been ordered not to enter the room."

"By who?"

"By Pollo himself."

"And the secretary heard no screams?"

"No," Triss said coyly. "But gags can be useful outside of the bedroom."

"So, he was expecting the vampire, and he was expecting an argument," Lupus considered this new information. "Keep digging. Find out if anybody saw anyone from the medical faculty leaving the area, and who else was free at the time."

Lupus turned to the report on the third victim. Ponza Gruntle was a bard, and by all accounts, the worst one to ever grace either Oxenfurt or the Continent, depending on who one spoke to, and the proximity to his music at the time of questioning. His fingers had been amputated, and he had been strangled with the strings of his lute. Lupus – considering himself a reasonably cultured individual – found that this death troubled him considerably less than the others. He had heard Ponza Gruntle play on more than one occasion, and each time he had escaped as quickly as possible. By all accounts, Ponza had mixed himself up in something terrible by singing a rather lewd song insulting the Kissige parentage, and possibly contributing his only worthwhile piece of music to the world shortly before his rather brutal death.

"It would appear that our vampire is particularly creative," Lupus said, laying aside the report on Ponza Gruntle and rubbing his eyes. "Well, this should at least make things interesting."

"Because any other higher vampire would be boring?"

"Exactly," Lupus tossed the reports aside. "And here I was thinking this was just going to be a werewolf, or a fleder. I doubt I would have stayed for something like that."

"You would have just… left?" Triss sounded hurt.

"I've no interest in predictable beasts," Lupus sighed. For some time now, he'd had no interest in anything. His memories were simply a mass of dull grey. He glanced up at Triss. Her face was stony. "Ah, wrong answer I see."

"You might say that," Triss said coldly.

"Triss, I didn't know what to expect." Lupus pushed himself up onto an elbow. "It's been six years. I thought you'd have moved on, or at least tried to. I know I did."

"And what if I had?" The sorceress tossed her hair. "What if I had moved on?"

Lupus considered this for a long time. He pushed himself up off the floor, and paced around the room. When he finally broke his silence, he spoke slowly, quietly, and calmly. He betrayed no emotion in his tone. They had taught him that in his witcher training. "I would have gotten back on Renegade and galloped out of this city as fast as she could carry me."

Triss was visibly astonished by this reply. Lupus bit his lip, anxiously waiting for her response. The setting sun threw the sorceress' face into sharp relief. Lupus couldn't think of a time when she had looked more beautiful. Out of the corner of his eye, Lupus saw the claws of the Hym extending towards Triss' shapely shadow. The witcher's face grew stony, and he turned away so that Triss wouldn't notice. The shadow paused, its horned head twisting towards the witcher. Reading his expression. Seeing the death in his eyes. The Hym flitted out of the room.

"Anyway," Lupus said, quietly, watching the rapidly darkening sky. "I should go. I'm hunting tonight."

"Kissige?"

Lupus nodded faintly. "They'll strike soon. This vampire wants to show off. He wants to impress me. And Kissige isn't too fond of me either."

"Come back safe," Triss said quietly. "And if Kissige is involved. Kill him."

A crescent moon was high in the cloudless night sky as Lupus observed Kissige's office. A single candle burned in the office, but combined with the pale moonlight, it was enough for Lupus to see clearly. From his vantage point on the rooftop opposite Kissige's office, Lupus could see straight into the mayor's office. He could see Kissige, devoid of the bluster he had shown when Lupus had stood opposite him. He seemed to cower in his seat, and he had a familiar look on his face. The face he had made when he had looked, and seen death in the witcher's eyes. Lupus' medallion trembled faintly on his chest. The figure disappeared from Kissige's office.

And reappeared right next to him.

Lupus dodged backwards as a hand with six-inch talons swiped at his face. His steps were sure on the slippery roof tiles, but the vampire was moving so quickly that he had no opportunity to draw his silver sword. Lupus thought back to the message that had been beaten into him in his training: find a way, or make one. The School of the Cat didn't hang around waiting for an opportunity to strike. They created their own opportunities. The vampire swiped at his head again. Lupus ducked underneath the outstretched arm and delivered a vicious uppercut to the vampire's jaw. Had it been an ordinary human, the blow would likely have sent him keeling backwards like a felled log. This, however, was a higher vampire. And the punch merely had the effect of making it particularly angry.

Lupus snatched the hunting knife from behind his back as the vampire roared at him with all the irritation of someone who had been stung by a particularly evasive wasp. The witcher blinked at the stench from the monster's mouth. It stank of rotting meat, and curiously, ammonia. Hygiene clearly wasn't high on this vampire's list of priorities. Lupus took a short step back to avoid a flailing arm, and his foot struck the gutter that lined the rooftop. The metal trembled under his weight. In any second, it would collapse, and Lupus would find himself at the mercy of a particularly angry vampire with a penchant for grisly and inventive murders.

Find a way, or make one.

Lupus kicked off from the gutter. It bore his weight just long enough for the witcher to dart away, then tumbled down into the street. A screech of pain told him it had struck a rather unfortunate cat. He leaped straight up in the air and pushed off the now-bemused vampire's face. The witcher tumbled through the air, the dark streets and rooftops replaced by the glittering stars and the blurred scythe of the moon twice over. Had an ordinary man attempted such a feat, he would have found himself flipping heels-over-head down the twenty-foot gap that separated the rooftops and splatter his innards across the broken gutter, the unfortunate cat, and the infrastructure of a Redanian city. Lupus, however, was a witcher, and so he avoided such a fate. Instead, he landed in a three-pointed stance, spreading the impact between his legs and free hand. The vampire was less interested in showing off his acrobatic skills, and instead backed away for a running jump. Lupus waited calmly, his body tense, prepared, focused. As the vampire was about to jump, the witcher snatched his crossbow from his belt and pulled the trigger. The bolt flew noiselessly in the dark, and continued until it shattered against a chimney on the rooftop opposite.

The vampire reappeared behind him, and thrust his talons straight into the witcher's back. Lupus found himself hurled back across the gap he had only just performed two backflips over. Lupus felt blood leaking from four punctures in his back. He rolled to his feet, and found the vampire striding towards him, fangs bared. Lupus twisted his fingers in the shape of a sign. He was expecting a short stream of flame to explode from his fingertips, something to halt the vampire's advance and allow him to go back on the offensive. He was not prepared for the veritable firestorm that streamed forth. The magical fire singed burned fiercely. He felt his glove begin to stiffen and crack under the heat. Over the sounds of the fire, Lupus heard the screams of the vampire. Struggling to his feet, Lupus hurled his hunting knife into the flames, as the last gout of flame licked its way through the air towards the monster. There was another, higher shriek of pain as the knife connected with its target.

Moonlight glinted on the polished silver blade of the witcher's sword. Still leaking blood from his back, he began to trace small circles in the air. The vampire's skin had blistered and cracked under the fire. In the cool night air, the creature smouldered. Flames continued to flicker and lick at the air on the remaining scraps of his clothes. With a groan, he extricated the hunting knife from his shoulder. It wasn't silver, but a large blade in one's shoulder is painful irrespective of the individual's sensitivity to silver. The moonlight flashed on the blade, then it was covered by a film of blood. The night air was broken by a howl of pain. Lupus made to strike again. But the vampire had vanished again.

The night air was broken by another howl of pain.

Lupus felt the creature's talons lay open his back. It ripped through his leather jerkin, through the shirt beneath, and sliced into the witcher's pale, scarred flesh. The cold air stung the open wounds. Lupus staggered. He tried to dodge another blow, but he had lost too much blood, and the sign had taken a huge amount of effort to control. His movements were clumsy and sluggish. The talons cut deep into his chest. Lupus grunted in pain. He hadn't the strength to scream. He summoned up what little energy he had left. The silver sword flashed in the moonlight. It connected solidly with the vampire, and sliced the hand off cleanly at the wrist. The vampire screeched in rage and pain, waving its bleeding stump and spattering himself and the witcher with blood. It swung its remaining fist wildly at the witcher.

Almost fainting from blood loss, Lupus could do nothing to avoid the blow. He tumbled through the air, and into empty space. The witcher found himself falling, heels-over-head, down the empty space that separated the two buildings. Lupus closed his eyes, waiting for the cold stone ground to split open his skull, crush his bones, and generally make a mess of his body. His journey was brought to an abrupt, and strangely comfortable halt. Through his rapidly-darkening vision, Lupus saw he had landed in a conveniently-placed hay cart. He sighed. The fucking vampire couldn't even kill him properly. He had wanted a witcher's death, and bleeding to death in a hay cart certainly did not count, regardless of how he had ended up there.

The last thing the witcher heard was the hurried _click-clack_ of heeled boots running on cobblestones, and the faint hoot of an owl.


	4. Chapter 4

Triss sat back in the chair by her bed and sighed with relief, exhausted from the effort of keeping Lupus alive. In the corner, Philippa paced back and forth, her brows furrowed and her lips pursed. The cold rays of dawn shone through the curtains, illuminating the witcher's pale face. Cold beads of sweat trickled down his face. Triss found it simply miraculous that Lupus had survived to the morning. She glanced over at Philippa. She hadn't made any effort to aid Triss, simply warning her not to kill herself in the process. The wounds were deep, and each cut had taken a huge amount of energy to close. Triss had nearly passed out twice. She had, however, managed to close all of the wounds. Thin red scars were all that remained. Philippa finally broke the silence.

"Will he live?"

Triss looked at her with hollow eyes, then looked at Lupus. "I think so."

"You can't be certain?"

"No," Triss said, taking a deep, shuddering breath. "He's lost a lot of blood, and his hand was scorched down to the bone."

"It would be _most_ disappointing if he were to die."

Triss was silent.

"He would have been a valuable asset."

"Philippa, could you do me a favour?"

The dark-haired sorceress considered the question carefully. "Perhaps."

"Leave me alone," Triss said quietly, but firmly. "Please."

"Triss, I understand the witcher means something to you, but –"

"He doesn't mean _anything_ to me," Triss said angrily. "I told you that before. I just want you to go."

"But, if he says anything," Philippa continued, unperturbed by Triss' rage. "Let me know. It is important."

"Go away!" Triss shouted, physically shaking with rage. Lupus stirred in his sleep.

Philippa stepped towards the window. "I'll be in touch."

There was a flutter of owl's wings.

Triss took several shaky breaths to steady herself. She had let her emotions get out of control. All it did was provide more ammunition for Philippa to use against her. The angrier she got about Philippa's needling, the more she would twist the blade. She would use Lupus against her. Triss buried her face in her hands. She was risking his life. And for what? Philippa's schemes and plots? Triss felt rage building inside her again. She wouldn't let Philippa use her. She couldn't let Philippa use him against her. She took several more breaths to steady herself.

Philippa Eilhart sifted through the mixture of letters, drawings, and contract notices that she had slipped from the witcher's saddlebags. She paused occasionally to examine the sketches. Most of them were quite excellent. One she recognised as the sleeping form of Triss Merigold. The paper was cracked and folded easily, betraying its age, and the fact that it had been frequently opened, closed, and re-opened. Another showed a severe-looking woman in profile, with a griffin-shaped medallion hanging around her neck. It had been drawn quickly, and without the care and attention of the first. This drawing had been folded only once. The paper was still stiff. Philippa set the sketches aside for further examination. From amidst the pile, she extricated a battered journal. Drawing her eyebrows together, Philippa opened the journal and began to read.

It did not belong to Lupus Grimm, of Cintra. Instead, Philippa found she was reading of the exploits of a witcher by the name of Aiden Schrodinger. It began nine months ago, in the mountains of Kovir. Philippa struggled to decipher the hastily-written notes, which jumped between random witcher contracts, and discussions with a certain "Professor Moreau." Her eyes widened as she read of the experiments that Schrodinger had forced onto the witchers of the School of the Cat. Most of them died. Painfully. The details were recorded in blunt, uncaring detail. The last to die was a witcher from the School of the Griffin. Philippa glanced at the hurriedly-sketched drawing on the desk. After the experiments, there were vague references to a strange presence. One page was made up of a charcoal drawing. It simply showed a horned head. Though there were no eyes, Philippa felt it staring out at her, and quickly turned the page. The next page simply stated:

 _I can feel it watching me._

Philippa felt a wave of cold spread over her, as though she had just been dunked into a frozen lake. She slammed the journal shut and pushed it as far away from her as possible. To calm herself down, Philippa poured out a measure of wine from the silver jug on her table, and took a long draught. She drummed her perfectly-manicured nails on the desk, then sifted through some of the other writings. There were more drawings of Triss. Philippa wondered if her friend knew these even existed. Then, she noticed something odd. The drawings of Triss, and those of the severe-looking witcher had been sketched in the same hand, but had been signed by different people. As expected, Lupus Grimm had drawn the sorceress; but Aiden Schrodinger had drawn the witcher. And yet a third set of drawings – pictures of the sun setting over the Royal Palace in Vizima – had been signed by Felix Carentin.

"Who are you really, witcher?" Philippa murmured to herself.

He was alive. He was still fucking alive. The vampire had done a hatchet job on his back and chest. His own sign had almost burned his hand off. But he was still alive. Fucking hell, Lupus thought bitterly. Either he was the most fortunate witcher on the Continent, or the most unfortunate. He heard the drip of tears hitting cold stone slabs. Triss. Instinctively, he reached out for her. He was responsible for her. He needed to comfort her. She didn't have anyone else. But the effort was too much. His breathing grew heavy and laboured. A cool hands closed around his hand and shoulder and manoeuvred him back into the bed. He resisted.

He needed to comfort her.

She didn't have anyone else.

Pushing through the pain in his chest, Lupus raised his arm up until it came into contact with the sorceress' smooth cheek. He felt the tears sliding over his skin. With clumsy movements, he brushed them away, as he had in Novigrad all those years ago. He felt Triss' mouth twitch into a smile. She brought his hand to her lips and kissed it gently. Finally, he opened his eyes. He back was in Triss' townhouse. In her bedroom. In her bed. His leather jerkin hung over a nearby chair. Triss had clearly been busy. It looked as good as new – devoid of the punctures and rips that should have left it in a sorry-looking state. The sorceress herself was sat by his side, her beautiful auburn hair, almost always brushed smooth, was tangled and tousled. Her normally immaculate nails, often painted in shades of green and blue, were chipped. Dark rings circled her bloodshot eyes.

"Triss?"

"I'm here," the sorceress gripped his hand tightly, her nails digging painfully into the skin.

Lupus swallowed painfully. "Why am I still alive?"

Bewildered by the question, Triss gave no answer. Her eyes darted away from him, unable to meet his gaze. By the time she looked back at the witcher, he had drifted back into his restless sleep. Triss had sat by his side for two days. She had heard him cry out in pain and anger, and she had comforted him when he called out the names of those who weren't there. Even the names that stung her pride and brought back painful memories of her own. This time was no different. Lupus called out, but it was not Triss that he sought a reply from. Nevertheless, she comforted him. He didn't have anyone else there to comfort him. Why that was, however, Triss didn't know. She caught sight of the griffin-shaped amulet that hung from his belt. Where was _she_?

Yennefer glared at the witcher's sleeping form. She was unapologetic in her dislike of the witcher, and seemed averse to even being in the same room as him. Her cold, violet eyes shot daggers at him. Triss felt the sudden urge to remind Yennefer that the witcher wasn't even conscious, and subsequently her constant look of hatred was not only unnecessary, but a complete waste of time. Having subjected the unconscious witcher to her withering gaze, Yennefer rounded on Triss.

"Triss, I feel it is my duty as your friend to remind you that the last time you got involved with him, you shut yourself up in Novigrad for a week."

Triss felt her cheeks redden a little. "I'm not getting _involved_ with him. He needs my help, it's purely professional."

"Purely professional?" Yennefer folded her arms. "Of course. That's why he's here, and not in your guest room."

"Yen, nothing is going on between us!" Triss flushed an even deeper red.

"If you say so," the dark-haired sorceress bit her lip, then continued in a softer tone. "Get some rest. I'll watch him for a while."

"No..." Triss said, trying to ignore the fact that she was swaying on her feet. "I should stay."

"Go!" Yennefer steadied her gently. "He's not going to wake up any time soon."

"Fine," Triss began to slide into the bed currently occupied by the witcher. Yennefer's face told her exactly what her friend thought of this plan. "It's my bed!"

"The man lying in it broke your heart, Triss," she said quietly, sitting down by her. "I came because you wanted my advice, and I would advise you to stay away from him."

"I can't just leave him." Triss whispered.

Yennefer's face grew hard and cold. Then, she seemed to relent. Whatever else she wished to say to her friend was held back. She plucked the griffin medallion from Lupus' belt, and swept out of the room, her dark curls whipping behind her. Triss watched her leave, then curled up next to the witcher. His hand gripped the sheets in a white-knuckle grip. Triss stroked his arm gently, trying to calm him, but Lupus jerked his arm away as though he had been scalded. She tried again, and was met with the same response. Triss took several deep breaths to steady herself, and entered herself into Lupus' dream.

She was standing in front of a pyre, in a glade at the edge of a craggy rock face. Black smoke trailed up towards the sky, blotting out the stars glittering like gemstones in the night sky. Beside her, Lupus watched the pyre, his face devoid of any expression. In his hand he clutched a griffin-shaped medallion. In the valley below, Triss saw a fortress built into the mountainside. She knew where she was.

"Who are you?"

A voice crept out of the shadows. It crawled up her spine, and into her ear, like a spider. Triss searched for the source of the voice, but the trees around her were so thick that they concealed whoever might be hidden there.

"What are you doing here?"

Triss muttered a spell, and a burst of light illuminated the area. Briefly, she saw a tall shadow amidst the trees. A shadow with a horned head. She blinked, and the shadow was gone.

"Why have you come?"

"What are you?" Triss shouted, casting the spell again. The shadow appeared in the trees to her right.

"You should not be here."

The voice was louder, angrier.

"Are you man?" Triss called out to the forest. "Or are you monster? Answer me!"

" _You should not be here_!"

"I will know what you are!" Triss cried. Another burst of light. The shadow appeared in the trees to her left.

"YOU SHOULD NOT BE HERE!"

The shadow appeared directly in front of her. It grew in height, towering above the magician. Its horned head looked down at her. The empty eye sockets stared blankly. Triss backed away towards the cliff edge. The shadow stopped next to Lupus, and laid a clawed hand on his shoulder. The witcher looked up at her, and his eyes bore death. Triss tripped over a stray rock, and tumbled over the edge of the cliff. The ground loomed up.

" _YOU SHOULD NOT BE HERE_!"

Triss gasped as she was ripped from her sleep.

She heard the flutter of owl's wings.

Yennefer finished off her notes on the griffin-shaped medallion, and briefly skimmed back over them, making sure she hadn't missed out anything of import. The medallion had been subjected to extensive experimentations. Runes had been inscribed on it, enhancing the intensity of witcher signs. Further enchantments had been placed on the medallion, enhancing the potency of the runes. Yennefer brushed aside a strand of black hair and balanced her chin on the tips of her fingers.

A magician had done this.

"Eh, Mistress Yennefer!" Called the innkeep. "Two of your learned colleagues are here to see you!"

"Let them in," Yennefer replied, tearing her eyes away from the medallion.

Philippa Eilhart and Triss Merigold stepped inside. Both looked shaken. Triss looked like she needed a bath. Yennefer smiled courteously, and indicated for the pair of them to sit down. Triss sat on the comfortable bed, while Philippa stood, arms folded and a dark look on her face.

"Well," Yennefer raised an eyebrow. "What have you learned?"

Philippa looked at Triss, who shook her head, her face pale. Philippa produced a charcoal drawing and handed it to Yennefer. She felt the empty eye sockets staring at her, as though the horned head was watching her every movement with its blank, passive face. Yennefer turned the page over, and read the single line that was written there.

"What is this?" Yennefer said in hushed tones.

"A… creature." Triss hugged her knees. "It's difficult to say exactly what it is. But we think it is a spectre of some kind."

"Triss entered a dream with Lupus," Philippa explained. "The thing expelled her. Whatever it is, it's powerful."

"What happened in the dream?" Yennefer glanced at Triss. The auburn-haired sorceress was visibly shaking.

"He was burning a body, at the Cat School fortress in Kovir," Triss said in a hoarse voice. " _Her_ body. He had her amulet. He took it with him. A memento, most likely."

"I don't think so," Yennefer said slowly. "The medallion – it had been experimented on by a mage, though I don't know who. It intensifies any signs cast by the wearer."

"So when he used igni," Philippa pursed her lips, "It turned into a firestorm that almost burned down the whole city."

"That's the gist of it, yes," Yennefer turned back to Triss. "Anything else?"

"A shadow appeared. It told me I shouldn't be there," Triss shuddered, feeling a wave of cold pass over her. "It laid a hand on Lupus."

"Did he say anything?"

"No, he just watched the fire."

"Then that must be the subject of the dream, and the spectre's fixation," Yennefer frowned. "But why burning the body. Why not the death?"

"I may be able to answer that," Philippa indicated the battered journal. "That was written under what can only be a pseudonym. From various reports I've gathered, Lupus Grimm and Aiden Schrodinger have never been in the same place together. Indeed, Aiden Schrodinger died during the Trial of the Grasses, along with eight others. Only Lupus – if that is indeed his true name – survived."

"Is any of that relevant, Philippa?" Yennefer asked bluntly. "Or is it just professional appreciation?"

"The journal," Philippa carried on, pretending she hadn't heard Yennefer, "Makes references to some kind of experimentations. I'd wager it was the same mage that inscribed the runes on that medallion."

"The experiments failed," Triss whispered. "It wasn't the death that bothered him. It was the fact that all of the experiments failed. The School of the Cat was wiped out, with the exception of the handful that had wintered elsewhere."

"You mean…" Yennefer's cold, violet eyes widened in shock. "You mean he killed them all? For what?"

"It's hazy on the details," Philippa shrugged. "But there's mention of trying to recreate the Trial of the Grasses, but with new decoctions. He was hunting down monsters – vampires; trolls; werewolves. Evidently, nothing worked."

"He always was stubborn," Triss said quietly.

"But," Yennefer's head was spinning. "But, why? Why did he keep going?"

"Because the experiment worked on one person," Triss replied, staring out the window. Sheets of rain battered against it. "Him."


	5. Chapter 5

The silver blade sang as it was pulled from its sheath. The fading sunlight shone on the mirrored surface of the blade, reflecting its rays onto the ceiling. The blurred light on the ceiling danced as the sword was tilted and scrutinised. With a fierce snap, the sword was shoved back into its sheath. The light on the ceiling was extinguished as quickly as it burst into life. With a creak of leather, the blade was slung over the witcher's back and the strap tightened. His medallion jingled merrily as he stepped quietly down the stairs. Triss was waiting for him, eyes blazing with cold fury. Lupus stopped dead in his tracks. The dying sun flashed on his medallion.

"We need to talk," Triss stated. Her arms were folded. Her words forced into calmness.

"We can talk later," Lupus said bluntly. "I have a vampire to hunt."

"No." Anger was creeping into Triss' voice. "We're talking now."

"I don't have time for this," Lupus retorted, making for the door.

He had barely taken a step when Triss gestured with a hand, and he was hurled into the wall. The breath was driven from his lungs, and he slid to the floor gasping for air like a fish wrenched from the water. Triss stood over him, her auburn hair glowing like fire in the last rays of the sun.

"We're talking now," Triss repeated.

"How much do you know?" Lupus asked, still struggling for breath.

"Almost everything," the sorceress said, her voice riddled with anger. "You killed them. All of them."

Lupus hung his head, unable to look Triss in the eye. "I know."

"What I don't understand is why."

"If you want my opinion –"

"I don't want your _opinion_ ," Triss snapped at him, "I want you to finally tell me the truth. I want you to stop hiding, to stop shutting me out! I want you to let me help you."

"You can't help me," Lupus shook his head. "Nobody can."

"I don't believe you."

"What do you want from me?" Lupus hissed. "I tried something, and failed. This is my punishment. This is my penance."

"For the experiments failing?"

Lupus sighed heavily. "Not exactly."

"What went wrong?" Triss crouched down. Her eyes were hard like chips of ice. Lupus looked away.

"I'm one-of-a-kind," Lupus laughed hollowly. "Something happened in my Trial. I mutated… differently. Moreau's experiments activated some dormant genes within me. The others wanted to try it. So we let them. We knew they wouldn't survive."

"You killed them deliberately." It wasn't a question. "You made sure they would die."

"It was a necessary evil," Lupus replied quietly. He tried to push down the anger boiling in his chest, but it suddenly came spilling out. "My brother witchers debased themselves, and our School. They used to hunt monsters, but then they found easier prey, for much more gold. Each death was put down to the weakness of the subject, and one thing that murder seems to breed is arrogance. They all wanted to be next, even as the bodies piled up. They died in agony, thinking they would achieve immortality. The irony was… amusing. Of course, some of the innocent had to die, but it was necessary. At least, that's what I told myself."

"And what about _her_?" Triss remained impassive, in spite of Lupus' outburst. "Why was her death so important? Was she not part of your crusade? Did her death not amuse you?"

"Do you really want to do this?" Lupus sighed and looked at the ceiling. Anywhere, but at Triss.

"Yes," Triss stood up and began to pace like a caged wolf. "It's time we talked about when you left Novigrad for that slut."

"Don't call her a slut!"

"I'll call her what I damn well please!" Triss shouted at him. Blue fire burst in her eyes. "I sat in my house for a week, waiting for _you_. Hoping you would come back to me. But you never did. You'd just packed your things and left without a word. I'm done standing up for you, and fighting battles on your behalf! You're a coward, Lupus. You've always been afraid. Of committing. Of letting me in. Of even _trying_ to conceive of a life that isn't wandering the Path, waiting for some fucking griffin or manticore or whatever to rip you apart and end the bleak, cold existence you call life."

"And you're so innocent?" Lupus hissed, struggling into a sitting position. "You think you're so good and noble? What about Geralt?"

"Don't you _dare_ bring him into this!"

"You brought _her_ into it," Lupus struggled to his feet. "I have every right to bring Geralt into this."

"We were on a break!" Triss shouted at him. "You stormed out of the house, sword-in-hand, and left for three months! I didn't even expect you to come back!"

"And how many times after our 'break' did you fuck him?"

"Lupus, don't."

" _HOW MANY TIMES_?"

"Five." Triss folded her arms, glaring at Lupus' downturned eyes. "I fucked him five more times. Does that make you happier, Lupus? Do you feel better?"

Lupus said nothing.

"Why her?"

He tugged his gloves on tighter, and curled his hands into fists.

"Tell me, Lupus. Tell me why you chose her."

He fixed his eyes on the dark wooden floor. His fists were clenched. His body tense.

"For fuck's sake, look at me!" He looked. Her eyes were soft, kind. They spoke of pain and anguish, but also comfort and safety. "Why her?"

"Because I was afraid," Lupus whispered.

"Afraid of what?"

Lupus' mouth opened, closed, then opened again, and finally closed. His eyes began to drift away from Triss towards the floor.

"Afraid of what?" Triss pressed.

"I was afraid of what we were becoming," Lupus finally said, "I'm a witcher. I'm destined to die in some cave that stinks of carrion, torn to pieces by some chort or fiend. No witcher has ever died in their bed of old age. The statistics are not in my favour. So I left. She understood – she was part of that world, and she knew what to expect."

"And did you love her?"

Lupus looked away.

"Answer me!"

"No, I didn't love her," Lupus snapped at Triss. "There was nothing there. By the time that was clear, I'd met Moreau. We went on to Kovir from there. I was the only one to leave come Spring."

"How did she die?"

"Painfully. She screamed at first. Then she began to choke on her own blood. Eventually, she drowned in it."

"Why did she agree to do it?"

"She insisted," Lupus shook his head. "I tried to warn her. She insisted. She was the last. After that, the experiments stopped. Moreau left for Toussaint. I'd failed. I shouldn't have let her do it."

"Why did you?"

"She would have done it anyway."

"You're lying."

"No," Lupus shook his head. "Not this time. She'd been poisoned. Basilisk venom is strong. Kills humans outright; even Golden Oriole can't deal with it after two days of infection. Moreau reasoned that, if she was exposed to the new decoctions, she might be able to survive the venom. I was against it. She insisted."

"So why the guilt?" Triss tossed her hair fiercely. "It was her choice. She chose to have these decoctions."

"She wasn't supposed to die," Lupus said bitterly. "She was innocent. The School of the Cat is a lost cause. Those that remain alive shouldn't be. But there isn't much I can do about that. She didn't know about my real motives. But she insisted."

"It wasn't because you failed _them_ ," Triss whispered. "But because you failed _her_."

"What are you talking about?"

"The spectre that haunts your dreams."

"How do you know about that?" Lupus stepped back, eyes wide. Behind Triss, he saw the claws of the hym detach from the wall. "Triss, go outside."

"I'm not going to let you run away from this," the sorceress hissed.

The claws swiped down at her.

They met the mirrored silver blade, blazing with fire in the light of the setting sun.

The hym screeched as the silver blade dug into its claws, but it continued to press down on the witcher. He shoved the blade to the right, dodging to the left as he did so. The claws carried with it and raked down the wall, sending a hail of splinters into Lupus' face. The witcher staggered back. He dodged another swipe from the claws, but barely managed to avoid the second claw. Lupus grunted in pain as one claw laid open his face. Then he felt heat spreading over his body. There was a burst of fire, and a stream of flame struck the hym squarely in the face, quickly spreading to the rest of its body. Triss stepped in front of Lupus, a ball of fire dancing above one palm.

"You should not be here," she hissed to the spectre. The flames flickering across its body made it appear even larger. It filled the hallway with, observing them from several feet above them. The hym turned its black, passive face – now wreathed in flame – towards her. Its claws flexed. "Leave this place!"

In the blink of an eye, the hym had disappeared.

"We need to move," Lupus said quickly.

"You're bleeding." Triss tried to inspect the cut, but the witcher brushed her off.

"It'll return to its lair. Where's the journal?"

"Philippa has it," Triss' eyes widened. With a cry, and a gesture, she opened a portal. A great sphere of swirling colour traced with lines of empty black stretched towards the ceiling. Lupus swallowed nervously. Triss cast him a stern glare. "Either you go through voluntarily, or I throw you through it."

Lupus chose the former.

He emerged in front of a desk littered with letters, scrolls, and other assorted stationary. An elegantly-dressed woman sat behind it, patiently awaiting whoever was about to appear from the portal. Lupus staggered past the desk, thrust open a window, and vomited into the university courtyard. There was a shout of anger, and Lupus saw the elderly, grey-haired man he had met several days ago wiping vomit from his bushy eyebrows. The man spat a long stream of curses at the witcher, until he finally withdrew his head and closed the window, muffling the man's ravings, which were currently comparing his mother to a hamster, and deriding his father's smell as that of elderberries. Lupus straightened up, eyes flashing. He edged out the silver sword on his back. The room was filled with fire from the dying sun.

"It's here," Lupus breathed.

Philippa Eilhart stood up, her dark eyes searching the room. Triss made a gesture, and a ball of fire burst into life above her hand. The blade sang as it left its scabbard. The sunset drenched it in flame as Lupus edged into the centre of the room. He plucked a vial from his belt, removed the cork with his teeth, and threw the contents into his mouth. Immediately, the world around him began to appear slow and sluggish. The fire burning above Triss' hand licked lazily at the air. Philippa's eyes swept the room at the pace of a rock being turned to sand. The silver blade traced a fiery path towards the hym as it lunged from the wall. It struck the spectre squarely in its chest. The blade passed through cleanly, as though it had passed nothing but vapour, but the silver still hurt it. With a shriek, the monster lurched away from the blade. It lashed out at Lupus with its claws, missed, and cut a candelabra into pieces. He struck at the hym again, receiving a shriek, but once again passing through. The hym struck at him. This blow connected, and Lupus was thrown to the floor.

Lupus unhooked a bomb from his belt and tossed it towards the hym, drawing the sign of igni as it tumbled through the air. The bomb exploded next to the hym's head, sending a fog of silver shrapnel into the air and dousing the spectre in a shimmering coat of splinters. The silver made the hym easier to see, but that was about it. Like other spectres, the hym existed only partially in the world. They were formed of mist and smoke, which briefly became corporeal when it struck out at its prey. As it did now.

The hym lunged at Triss, its giant claws sweeping through the air like scythes. Lupus darted across the room, leaped into the air, spun, and thrust the sword into the hym. But the blade met nothing but air. The hym was across the room, its silver-coated claws tearing through Philippa's desk. The sorceress raised her hands, and bolts of lightning struck the hym, crackling amongst its misty body like a cloud in a thunderstorm. Lupus felt his vision suddenly blur, and he dropped to one knee.

He saw a severely-faced, female witcher striding towards him, silver sword burning in the sunset. She raised the sword to strike. Then, he was thrown against the wall. The female witcher staggered, then Lupus' vision flickered, and she was replaced by the hideous, clawed form of the hym. Triss hurled a fireball into its chest, just as lightning burst from Philippa's outstretched hands. Lupus cursed. The hym was fucking with his mind. He twisted his fingers into the sign of yrden, and a circle spread around the hym. It screeched, trapped in the circle. Lupus pushed himself to his feet, then raised his sword.

His vision flickered. He faltered, turning the blade at the last minute, as its flaming surface descended on Triss' neck. The silver blade thudded into the wood. The hym thrust its claws into Lupus stomach. Cold flooded into his body. Triss screamed. Philippa cursed. Lupus felt his feet leave the ground as he was lifted off his feet. And then weightlessness. Nothingness. He was flying across the room. A crunch of wood. He crashed through the wooden door and tumbled down the tiled corridor.

The cold continued to spread throughout his body.

Lupus grimaced, fumbling for another potion with numb fingers. He bit down, and was met with the crunch of glass. Lupus rolled his eyes, spat out the shards of glass, and tipped the potion into his mouth. The broken edges cut his lips. The potion was bitter, tinged with the coppery tang of blood. The cold halted.

Triss shouted a spell, and a stream of fire burst forth from her left hand. With her right, Triss drew a sign that forced the hym, still shimmering in its silver coat, to become physical once again. She was shaking with rage. Her eyes burned with fury. Triss stalked forwards, directing the firestorm into the hym. The wooden ceiling and walls of the office was beginning to blacken and smoke as it too caught fire. The silver shards on the hym turned a reddish-pink, then turned into liquid. It dripped from the spectre's body in globules of molten metal.

"He is mine!" Triss shouted at the hym as it backed away, claws flailing. "Do you hear me? _He is mine_!"

"Triss," Philippa called, throwing away her desk with a gesture. A ball of electricity began to swell between her hands, "Please stop being dramatic, and get out of the way."

The ball struck the hym in its chest, crackling along its shell of molten silver. The hym screamed, the shriek shattering the windows in the office. Triss ended her spell and clapped her hands over her ears. Still the shriek went on. The hym's claws were splayed out beside it, like the legs of a spider. Then, slowly, it began to dissipate. The mist was swept away, as though struck by a gust of wind.

Lupus struggled to his feet, leaning heavily against the wall. Blood dripped out over his gloves as he attempted to staunch the blood pouring from between his fingers.

"It's gone," Lupus said hollowly, as though he didn't really believe it. His mind suddenly felt free. As though a belt had been loosened on it. He crashed to his knees, then pitched forwards onto his hands. Triss rushed over to him, pulling him back up onto his knees. "I'm fine, Triss. Really. Had some Swallow."

"You're bleeding," Triss reached towards the wounds, but he grabbed her arm.

"Don't touch it. Toxic."

"This isn't my first time patching up a witcher," Triss smiled at him. He released his grip on her arm. "What happened? It looked like you had the thing right where you wanted it."

"It messed with my head," Lupus coughed. He tasted blood. "Turned itself into you."

"This is all very… touching," Philippa said from the shattered doorframe, "But would either of you mind telling me what the fuck just happened?"

"Burn the journal," Lupus groaned as Triss murmured a spell and his wounds began to knit back together. "Burn the drawings. Burn everything."

"Why?"

"Closure," Lupus smiled, though his face was drawn taut with pain. "For closure."


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Apologies for re-uploading this chapter, it would appear there are some technical issues going on with the site.**

* * *

Yennefer stepped through the blackened stones and beams of wood. The frost had preserved the ruins perfectly. The walls of the fortress were, with the exception of some fire damage, relatively unharmed. No siege had occurred here. Charred skeletons lay on the frozen flagstones, their hands still clenched around now-dulled blades and spears gleaming with frost. She reached the heaved open the huge, splintered oaken doors, and was greeted with a horrific sight. Four tall, fire-blackened crosses hung from the rafters, with four charred skeletons nailed to the points of the cross. Yennefer's face darkened. Her foot struck something hard, and she winced in pain. Looking down, she saw it was a heavy book with an ornate cover. Curious, the sorceress picked it up and leafed through the singed pages, most of them damp with frost.

 _26_ _th_ _November, 1262._

 _Schrodinger returned to us today. He was accompanied by a witcher from the School of the Griffin, who upon being asked her name told me that I should "fuck off until she thinks up one worthy of my writings." Suffice to say, she is disliked by many in the keep. Schrodinger's other companion is a certain Professor James Moriarty Moreau. He is talkative, but will not discuss his research with anyone but Schrodinger._

 _1_ _st_ _December, 1262._

 _Colle died today. Schrodinger persuaded him to participate in some experiment or other. The screams echoed around the entire valley. We burned the body at sunset, as befits tradition._

 _14_ _th_ _December, 1262._

 _Reid is dead. Schrodinger sent him out to look for a basilisk. Several others have also passed away as the result of Schrodinger and Moreau's experiments. All have been burned at sunset._

 _28_ _th_ _December, 1262._

 _Of the thirty witchers that wintered here, half have died. Schrodinger, of course, is to blame. Though I have warned my brothers against participating in his experiments, they have ignored my advice._

 _1_ _st_ _January, 1263._

 _Schrodinger's woman has died. He left the fortress this morning to travel south, in search of a new place to winter. He burned her body alone. Moreau has stayed._

 _19_ _th_ _January, 1263._

 _Nine of us remain. Nine. Less than a third of those that came this winter – the largest in recent memory. Schrodinger has destroyed us. I gathered those that remained, and ejected Moreau from the keep._

 _13_ _th_ _February, 1263._

 _Schrodinger has betrayed us. Joel spotted soldiers heading for the castle._

 _14_ _th_ _February, 1263._

 _They have taken the bridge, and the bailey._

 _We have barred the keep, but cannot hold them for long._

 _I hear drums._

 _We cannot get out._

 _They are coming._

The last page was splattered with blood.

* * *

"No."

"What do you mean, 'no'?"

"I mean I refuse. I do not accept. I am replying in the negative."

"I know the word, please put it into the proper context."

"We've been discussing this for some time now, what other context is there?"

"Nobody likes the Pronoun Game, Lupus."

"Nobody likes _you_ , Philippa."

"Lupus…"

"Fine. I'm not going to kill for you. Happy now?"

"No. The man tried to have you killed. Surely that makes killing him justifiable."

"I'm contracted to kill the vampire. If it happens to be looking for me, that just makes it easier to find."

"Because your last attempt went spectacularly for everyone involved."

"That's not fair, I wasn't expecting him."

"What if we could come to some kind of arrangement."

"What kind of arrangement."

"An arrangement where you help us, and we help you."

"I don't like vague deals. I don't like vague anything, to be perfectly honest."

"Then let me walk you through it. In return for Kissige's head, I will pay you a considerable sum of money, and personally help against the vampire."

"… I'm listening."

Lupus glanced around the corner, then darted back behind the wall. Four people stood in the alleyway. One of them, judging by his considerable width, was Kissige. Another wore gleaming plate armour, and was dressed in the livery of the Redanian army. The other two were also in plate armour, though it was concealed by heavy black cloaks. Lupus considered his odds. Three men in plate against one in leather. Bad, he surmised, they were very bad odds. He sighed. Tracking them down individually would be time-consuming. The vampire was still prowling the city, and his hand would have grown back by now. Unfortunately.

The voices were too faint for him to hear properly, but even at this distance, Lupus recognised a Nilfgaardian accent. He frowned. What was the Nilfgaardian army doing in Oxenfurt. Lupus swore quietly. What the fuck had he gotten himself mixed up in this time? Then again, Lupus reasoned, he was going to get a sizeable payout from this. He might be killing humans, but given that Philippa had helped him to destroy the hym, Lupus was going to let this one slide. The hypocrisy certainly wasn't lost on him. The soft murmur of voices stopped abruptly. Boots tramped across the flagstones, echoing in the dark alleyway. Lupus slid into the shadows. The black-cloaked soldiers strode past, hands clenched around the hilts of their swords.

Lupus heard the flutter of owl's wings. He looked up, and saw a large, pale owl land on the rooftop opposite him. Lupus pointed at the owl, then pointed at Kissige and his companion. He then pointed at himself, and then at the Nilfgaardians. The owl hooted, and flapped its wings. Somehow, Lupus got the impression that, had he been and owl, he would have understood that hoot as being extremely insulting. Rolling his eyes at Philippa, he slipped down the street after the Nilfgaardians, taking care to walk only in the shadows.

They hurried through the cramped streets of Oxenfurt, occasionally checking behind them. Each time they glanced back, Lupus felt his heart quicken as he darted into cover, hoping that they hadn't seen him. It was a moonless night, but his pale skin could still give him away. As the pair rounded a corner, Lupus let out three soft hooting noises to alert the friends of Marlon and Max – two bruisers that frequented the boxing rings, both as round as they were tall. To anyone with an interest in owls, they would have recognised two of the hoots as that of a barn owl, and the third as the sound of a screech owl.

"Is that the signal?" Someone muttered.

"Don't know," grunted another voice.

"Who goes there!" One of the Nilfgaardians shouted out into the darkness, half-drawing his sword.

"Fuck it," barked the first voice. Suddenly, an almighty cry broke the still night air.

" _FREEEEEEEEEDOOOOOOOOM_!"

The astounded Nilfgaardians had no time to react as a squat ball of mass sprinted out of the darkness, head lowered, steel cap pointed straight at the nearest Nilfgaardian. As the black-cloaked soldier's sword began to rasp from its scabbard, the dwarf dived forwards, his helmet smashing into the Nilfgaardian's jaw. The second man raised his sword to strike down at the dwarf, but Lupus snatched his crossbow from his belt and loosed a round at the Nilfgaardian's raised arm. The bolt struck him in the fleshy part of his arm, just as a second dwarf ran out of the darkness, puffing hard from the effort.

"I'll get him!" The exhausted dwarf wheezed, staggering towards the prone Nilfgaardian. His companion was busy smashing his head into the other soldier's face with unbridled fury, his wide forehead smacking wetly against the Nilfgaardian's blood-smeared face.

Lupus wandered over, slipping the crossbow back onto the hook on his belt. The Nilfgaardian by the exhausted dwarf was whimpering, his trembling fingers exploring the bolt that had stuck in his arm.

"You've killed me!" The Nilfgaardian wailed. "I'm dying!"

"You'll be fine," Lupus snorted.

"Need to conserve my strength," the exhausted dwarf sat down on the ground, then lay back, his chest rising and falling rapidly. "Need to… fuck me, that was hard work!"

"I'm dying, you bastard!" The Nilfgaardian spat at Lupus.

"No, really," Lupus crouched down beside him, "It's just a flesh wound."

"I'll get there… sometime!" The dwarf coughed.

"I'll never be able to tell Margilla I love her," the soldier cried. "I'll never be able to finish that night-course in poetry!"

"It's a scratch!" Lupus shouted at him. "Look!"

Lupus grabbed the bolt, snapped off the fletched end, and wrenched the shaft through the Nilfgaardian's arm. Blood began to leak from the gaping wound in his arm. From behind him, Lupus heard the repetitive sound of wet smacking. Following the sound, his eyes picked out the bloodied forehead of the dwarf smashing into the pulped soldier's face. Lupus thought better of reminding the dwarf that they needed at least one of them alive, and decided that they would just take the Nilfgaardian with the minor wound in his arm.

"Well, fuck me," Lupus muttered.

The man was stone dead.

"You're lucky I'm not hitting you right now!" The exhausted dwarf shouted, pointing up at the dead Nilfgaardian. "You'd be dead! Dead, you hear me! Dead!"

Ignoring the dwarf, Lupus opened up the satchel that was looped over the Nilfgaardian's shoulder. The stench of fish wafted out of the bag, and Lupus wrinkled his nose in distaste. He twisted his fingers into the sign of igni, and tipped out the bag's scaly contents. Half a dozen herring slid out onto the cobblestones. In the light of the flame flickering, Lupus noticed that someone had painted them all red. Sceptical of exactly what kind of trade had just gone on, Lupus continued to search, his hands struck something small and hard in the soldier's cloak. In a tiny pocket barely visible to the eye, Lupus found a tightly-folded piece of paper. His eyes gleamed with interest as he stowed the folded paper in his belt. He glanced over at the second Nilfgaardian. The steel-capped dwarf was blearily nudging his head against the Nilfgaardian's blood-coated jaw.

"Freeeeeeedoooooom," the dwarf murmured, as Lupus nudged him off the soldier's chest. "Freeeeeeedoooooom."

This man had nothing of interest, aside from the severe beating his face had received. Lupus shrugged, and left the two dwarves lying exhausted on the street. They could clearly take care of themselves. Lupus wound his way back through the alleys, his eyes flitting across the shadows. There was a murmur of voices from around the corner. A pool of light was moving towards Lupus, and he slipped into the shadows of a nearby doorway.

"So you see," someone was saying in a rough, Redanian accent. "We need to re-establish society, and give control of the means of production to the working class!"

"Where the fuck did that come from?"

Two guards rounded the corner. Lupus hunkered down in the doorway, his hood pulled down low over his head. If they merely glanced at him, the guards would see nothing more than a simple beggar.

"Well," the first guard shrugged. "You never know, you might find yourself the subject of some artistic type's scribblings."

"So you just wander around spouting off about the means of production?" The pair came to a halt just before they passed Lupus' doorway. "In case somebody's writing about it?"

"I'd rather take that chance and look stupid than never be more than a generic, non-speaking role!"

"Fucking hell," the second guard grunted. "Come on, that witcher's supposed to be prowling around."

The guards wandered on, the light washed over the witcher crouched in the doorway. If they looked to the right, they would see him. But they passed by without incident, and after another few minutes, Lupus heard the socialist musings of the first guard as they rounded the next corner. Lupus released a breath he hadn't even realised he'd been holding. So, he thought, slipping out of the shadows, the guards were looking for him. Perhaps Kissige had finally tired of waiting for the vampire to kill him.

Lupus' breath caught in his throat as he heard the clacking of heels on the cobblestones. His eyes swept around the street, but the doorways were too shallow to hide in. The steel sword sang as it was pulled from its sheath. The faint light washing against the dirty walls reflected off the mirrored surface of the oiled blade. A single, female figure ran around the corner, a flame dancing above her hand.

"Triss?" Lupus sheathed the blade, recognising the flowing chestnut hair. "What are you doing here? Where's Philippa?"

"Kissige spotted her," Triss said between deep breaths. "He caught her – took her back for… interrogation. We need to rescue her."

"Where?" Lupus took her by the shoulders, steadying the sorceress.

"The barracks," Triss panted.

"Triss, that's suicide, the guards –"

"Will all be out looking for me and you."

Lupus briefly considered this, then he was struck by a fantastical and completely ridiculous plan. A plan so ridiculous, it was bound to work.

"Triss," he said gleefully, "I have a cunning plan! And it's a plan so cunning you stick a tail on it and call it a weasel."

Triss sighed. "This isn't going to end well, is it?"

"When have any of my cunning plans not worked out?" Lupus asked, hurt by her lack of giddiness and the particularly cunning nature of this cunning plan.

"All the time. Literally, not one once."

"Well, as they say, ninety-sixth time's the charm."

"Nobody says that, Lupus."


End file.
